


Holodeck Adventures

by Jaye_Voy



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6068635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two PWPs as Tom and Chakotay spice up their marriage by roleplaying two Old West scenarios.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. El Diablo Bonito

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2003. Although there are some tweaks, the story's contents (and its flaws) are mostly intact.  
> Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property of Paramount. "El Diablo" belongs to HBO. No infringement is intended or profit made. This is NC-17 for m/m sex  
> and light bondage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A marshal pursues a notorious outlaw and winds up with more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tip of the hat to Kim R.'s "Playtime" series for the inspiration. I haven't actually seen the film "El Diablo", but Robert Beltran's photos from it are so deliciously wicked I just couldn't resist. If I have the Spanish wrong, do let me know.

Marshal Tom Pruitt checked his guns, his knives, his bandanna, his spurs, his badge, and his hat. He was ready.

He was about to burst into the lair of the most notorious bandit the West had ever seen: a mysterious man known only as El Diablo. The outlaw had left a trail of busted banks and broken hearts from Kansas to California to Mexico and back again.

The gun-slinger was despised by wealthy cattlemen and oil barons across the territories. El Diablo was known to have a particular fancy for rich men's gold. The power-mongers had the ears of the politicos and the newspaper owners, so they quickly spread tales of El Diablo's vicious and ruthless ways.

Yet there were other, softer voices who claimed the outlaw as their hero. The widows and orphans of the nameless workers who died slaving in the mines and building the railroads; the penniless farmers who were forced off their land by the greed of more influential men. They claimed El Diablo was an American Robin Hood, robbing the rich to help the poor whoever and wherever they were. And there were dozens of women lined up to sigh over his dashing good looks and irresistible charm.

Tom didn't care which version was correct. He was a Federal Marshal, assigned to bring in El Diablo---dead or alive.

He'd parted ways with the posse two days before. El Diablo's trail had continued south, toward Mexico. But Tom's gut was telling him it was a wild goose chase. He figured the wily renegade was holed up somewhere nearby, no doubt counting his haul from the raid on the vault in the railroad office. Interestingly, the payroll money had been left untouched.

But Tom's partner believed the rat was running home to his south-of-the-border fortress. The rest of the men had followed, leaving Tom behind to fend for himself.

He'd traveled upriver, figuring the outlaw would have a hideout near a water source. Now he'd found it.

The tiny cabin was tucked into a box canyon whose entrance was just wide enough to wade through. Tom was lucky his horse was strong enough to swim against the river current and pass through the opening between two rocky outcroppings.

Once inside, the land opened up, framed by cliff walls that would take hours to climb. There were grasses and trees, flowers and bushes, all growing wild in the secret watering hole.

Tom had tethered his horse by a patch of grass far enough away from the building not to be noticed. He'd crept from tree to tree, crawling on his belly to avoid being seen.

Now he sidled up to a window to peek inside and find out how many of the bandit's men he'd have to fight past to reach his quarry.

His view was impeded by partly-closed shutters, but he had an impression of rough wood furniture and a primitive stone hearth. He stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look.

Then froze at the unmistakable sound of a gun hammer being cocked.

"Buenos dias, gringo," said a soft, accented voice in Tom's ear. "Raise your hands, but make no other move if you wish to continue upon this Earth."

Tom swallowed his dismay, sensing a formidable presence at his back. The cold touch of a pistol muzzle against his cheek kept him motionless as his gunbelt was unfastened and drawn away.

"Turn around." El Diablo kept a close eye on his intruder. He'd been surprised to hear his horse whicker as if welcoming another. It brought him outside to investigate. No one had ever found his secret sanctuary, but he was always alert to the possibility of its discovery.

Fortunately, he'd managed to get the drop on his trespasser. The tall, slim stranger slowly pivoted, long-fingered hands in the air.

Diablo gasped. Under a broad-brimmed hat, blue eyes pierced him. Never had he seen such a jewel-bright gaze, the color of a summer sky at high noon. The lawman's face suggested he was a few years Diablo's junior, and pale skin and fine bones hinted at an upbringing back East. The silver badge, brown jacket, and blue cotton shirt showed the dust of long travel, but the jeans were freshly wet to the knees. He'd gained entrance by wading the river, then.

The bandit forced his attention from the length of the slender limbs and grinned at his prisoner. "So impolite of you, Senor Marshal, to disturb my siesta uninvited." He gestured with the gun. "Inside, por favor."

Tom tried not to shiver as the words rolled from the most exquisite lips he had ever seen. A silky moustache and tiny patch of beard framed a full, sensuous mouth as if highlighting its curves. And what a smile: a mix of mirth and mischief, bracketed by a pair of deep dimples. No wonder the ladies all threw themselves at El Diablo. He was a very handsome man who practically oozed charisma and masculine appeal.

The outlaw's skin shone with a golden-brown tint that spoke of ancestors native to the land. His high cheekbones and aquiline nose were set off by intense brown eyes and thick black hair that feathered down to brush against his collar.

His white silk shirt was open at the throat, revealing the top of a smooth chest. A vest woven in a pattern of rust and gold spanned a powerful torso and trailed down to a trim waist.

The pants made Tom swallow. They were tight, black leather hugging the insides of muscular thighs, sliding upward to the beltline. The sides of the trousers were the same shade of red as the vest. Black leather guards fastened with silver buckles covered the material from knee to ankle, where a hint of black boot and silver spur lurked underneath.

Giving himself a mental shake, Tom turned and slowly walked into the tiny cabin. He wondered if he would ever leave it---alive.

***************

El Diablo strolled past his prisoner and took a seat. He tilted the chair back, crossing his ankles and propping his feet on the table. He saw the blue eyes fasten on his spurs as they glittered in the bars of afternoon sunlight slanting through the slats in the shutters. His brows drew together in a small frown, wondering what the gringo was thinking.

Tom couldn't wrench his gaze away from those fantastic legs set off by snug black leather and red suede. They seemed to be on display specifically to tempt him into thoughts no "real man" of the territories was allowed to entertain. Sweat broke out on his forehead. "Mr. Diablo?" he ventured.

"Si, gringo?" was the cool reply. One dark brow rose in query.

"Uh, it's kind of hot in here." He gestured with his fingers toward his hat. "May I?"

"Of course." A sudden inspiration lent a wicked glint to the dark eyes. "In fact, Senor Marshal, I'm sure you have a few tricks hidden away. So you can remove *all* of your garments." The gun reacquired its target as El Diablo pointed it between the blue eyes. "Very slowly, por favor."

Tom's spine stiffened. He would not stand naked as a jaybird in front of this outlaw. "And if I don't?" he challenged.

"Then, Senor Marshal, we will be ending our siesta with a funeral." Wide shoulders shrugged. "Yours, I'm afraid."

Tom was a lawman, trained to ride, shoot, and fight. But even he couldn't dodge a bullet. He gave in with ill grace, grimacing as he took off his hat and let it drop to the floor.

"El hombre d'oro," El Diablo breathed in wonder. The man's hair seemed to glow in soft waves of gold. A rush of desire surprised him. This was his enemy, not one of his compadres or even an innocent bystander. Still, he would enjoy this show. "Continue, Senor Marshal," he said, affecting a façade of indifference.

"My name's Tom. Tom Pruitt," Tom grumbled as he pulled off his boots. He winced as the outlaw gestured for them to be pushed out of reach. So much for grabbing one of his knives. He started on his jacket, sneaking glances at El Diablo through his lashes. He swore to himself he was just checking for a sign of distraction, but in truth baser instincts were driving his interest.

El Diablo, meanwhile, was watching fascinated as the sunlight winked in the golden hairs decorating his captive's body. His breathing hitched slightly as slender fingers undid the buttons on the simple shirt. Soon the muscles of chest and midriff were bared for his inspection. The gringo's shoulders were surprisingly broad, the chest slender but well-made. The mat of darker gold sprinkled across the expanse set his fingers itching. "Mi tesoro," he murmured.

The husky voice rubbed along Tom's nerves like a rough caress. He shivered in the warm air. Embarrassment dropped his head, cheeks burning. He bit his lips as his hands hesitated on the first button of his jeans.

"Oh, you cannot stop now, Tomas." El Diablo slid his feet to the floor and stood. He tucked the pistol into his holster as he sauntered over to lift the blond man's chin. "Or do you simply want me to undress you?"

Tom readied himself to attack, despite his newfound reluctance to harm this enticing outlaw. "I think that you'll do what *you* want, regardless of my desires in the matter." He tilted his chin defiantly, even as he trembled slightly at El Diablo's nearness.

"But pray tell me, mi tesoro d'oro, what is it you desire?" They were so close that he could see the pupils dilating in the blue eyes above his.

"What I desire?" Tom shifted closer, feeling his nipples and cock stiffening as lust heated his blood. He could smell the spicy, clean scent of that honey skin so tantalizingly close. He wanted to see it, touch it, taste it. But duty drove him instead to stealthily slide his hands toward El Diablo's pistols. He *would* bring the bandit in, but alive---definitely alive.

Swift as a snake El Diablo discerned the ruse and struck. He grabbed the betraying hands long before they reached their goal. He forced the slender arms behind Tom's back, gathering both wrists in one hand.

Tom froze, panic making his heart beat faster than passion had. He focused wary eyes on his captor, wondering what punishment his bid for freedom would earn him. He relaxed slightly as El Diablo chuckled in genuine amusement.

"You are full of spirit, Tomas. I enjoy that." He brought his free hand up to unknot the bandanna still adorning a pale neck. "But I think I must make sure all of your surprises are pleasant ones."

A few simple twists and ties and Tom's hands were bound behind him. He swallowed and shivered again, then let out a soft moan as El Diablo's gaze raked him with unmistakable hunger.

Gripping the jean-clad hips, El Diablo turned and backed his prize against the table, glad that the thick cotton covering the wood would protect delicate skin. He stepped back and crossed his arms. El Diablo shot a pointed glance at the erection clearly outlined in denim, then met eyes bluer than any cloth. "Now you must tell me, just what shall I do with you, Tomas?"

***************

Tom's sense of duty, fatigue from the journey, and shame at his so-called unnatural desires melted away under that burning dark gaze. He wanted whatever those strong hands would do to him. Desperately. "Anything."

"Anything?" El Diablo's eyes seemed to turn black with desire. He took a calming breath, barely managing not to pounce. "You are certain of this?"

"Oh, yes," Tom murmured, and swayed forward to press his naked chest against smooth and textured silks. The feeling was indescribably sensual. He dared a bold kiss to that lush mouth, feeling the moustache tickle his skin.

A growl signaled El Diablo's agreement with Tom's actions as he forced open the lips locked with his. His tongue proved its mastery by claiming the sweet, wet heat of Tom's mouth. His fingers played in sprigs of golden chest hair, scraping his nails along the lines of muscle, rolling and pinching at the tight rosy nipples. Eventually his hands found their way to a snug denim-clad ass, squeezing and pulling, thrusting their groins together.

Tom ripped his mouth away, overwhelmed by the sensations. He dropped his head back, unconsciously offering his throat. He groaned as El Diablo began marking his territory, kisses leading to nips followed by soothing licks. The shift from soft to sharp to wet made Tom's head spin and his cock swell further. "Please," he muttered.

El Diablo lifted his head and surveyed his dazed captive. His fingers dragged along Tom's waistband to the fly. He unbuttoned the jeans, carefully freeing an engorged, leaking cock.

Tom was staring, unable to look away from the passion-flushed face in front of him. He was shocked when El Diablo sank to his knees, licking his lips as he shoved Tom's trousers down to his ankles.

The musk of Tom's arousal was strongest here, and his swollen sex dripped precum along its straining length. El Diablo grinned up at his now willing prisoner. "May I?" he asked.

"Yes." Tom's permission ended in a sob as that wicked tongue began to lap at the head of his cock, swiping almost carelessly over the drooling slit. He thrust his hips, seeking friction, but was denied as El Diablo's mouth detoured to playfully nip at his ballsac. He leaned against the table, letting it support his unsteady weight.

Sensing the build of frustration, El Diablo ran his moustache along Tom's cock, tickling him. The strange, garbled sounds from above encouraged him to do it again and again. Eventually he tired of the game and went to work.

Tom's brain was frying, the messages flying up from his groin too much for his synapses to handle. Only one thought got past the silent mantra of FuckYesFuckYesFuckYes in his mind: Bandit or hero, El Diablo could really suck cock. He growled his appreciation, coming hard into the slick enclave encasing him.

El Diablo indulged himself with a brief taste of the younger man's cum, then hastily brought his fingers up to collect the rest of the slick fluid. His other hand quickly freed the long legs from their cloth shackles. He rose up, pushing his now naked prize onto the table. He spread the younger man's knees with his hips, angling his own still-clothed body downward.

He braced one hand against the table as the other slid between pale buttocks, one finger almost lazily circling its target. He lowered himself further, staring into Tom's face. He purred, "Tell me, Tomas, have you ever held a stallion between your thighs?"

***************

Tom's eyes flew open as he was shocked out of his post-orgasmic haze. He parted his legs further and arched his back. It was wickedly titillating to be naked while his ravisher remained fully clothed. The different textures brushing his skin set his nerve endings tingling. He rubbed his flaccid sex against the leather concealing El Diablo's rampant one. "Not until now," he admitted, and rested his thighs on top of El Diablo's gunbelt, the touch of cold metal shocking to his sweaty flesh.

El Diablo claimed Tom's mouth once more as his fingers eased, then plunged into the pliant body beneath his. He twisted them, enjoying his exploration of the heated channel even as he ensured his partner was ready for a greater consummation. He swallowed the gasps that told him when he hit the sweet spot.

Between the kiss and the internal dance of those talented digits, Tom was struggling for breath. When his lips were freed his eyes fluttered open to see as well as feel. His ankles were shifted higher to span powerful shoulders, then he watched with avid fascination as a thick dusky cock was freed inch by inch from its leather prison.

Tom groaned in anticipation, his own re-awakened dick bobbing with every deep breath. He couldn't tear his eyes away as he relaxed his whole body, readying himself for the plunge.

El Diablo lifted the slender hips and lined up, then hesitated. He savored the moment and the almost-painful edge of anticipation. "Mi tesoro," he whispered, his thumbs bestowing a tender caress. Then he thrust himself to the hilt into the lean body cradled in his grasp.

Both men groaned, then froze, staring at each other, feeling the connection between them in every pulsebeat throbbing through the place they were joined together. They started to move, settling into a rhythm of quiet grunts punctuated by sharp sounds as leather and suede met bare flesh.

Tom braced his bound arms against the table for leverage as he bucked and writhed, striving for even deeper penetration.

El Diablo tightened his grip, his thrusts becoming rougher as passion took hold. He was slamming into Tom's body, staking his claim. His balls drew up in readiness, the leather confining them an added fillip of sensation.

Tom nearly sobbed his gratitude as one golden-brown hand slid from his hip to his cock. He strained into the clenching fingers until his orgasm erupted from him in a hoarse shout and the heated burst of his seed.

The grip of the slick walls around his swollen cock sent El Diablo over the edge. He plunged again and again, spending himself with a husky growl of satisfaction.

***************

Chakotay carefully pulled out of his husband's body and levered himself up. He scanned the limp form that looked like it had oozed into the table. "Are you OK?"

"Hmmm...." Tom slowly blinked, then focused on the worried face above him. "You're out of character," he chided.

Chakotay pressed a relieved kiss to the pouting pink lips. "Of course I am." He pulled Tom into a sitting position and reached around to free his lover's hands. "I've been out of character since this program started. If I'd really portrayed the Mexican bandit as you designed him, I'd have shot you on sight."

"*That* would have been a waste of good holodeck time." Tom automatically rubbed his wrists, but in truth the binding had been more for show than genuine restraint. "The 'Robin Hood' twist gave me the first clue this wasn't going to go exactly to plan. I didn't remember telling you to give away all your ill-gotten gains."

Tom sent Chakotay a sly grin as he brushed a finger along the edge of his mate's shirt. "I've got to say though you really know how to make a part your own." He opened a button, stroking the warm skin revealed. "That accent sure got me going."

"I thought you'd like it." Chakotay flashed his dimples as he winked.

"Not to mention the moustache and all that hair." Tom's hands moved upward to bury themselves in the longer strands. "You've *got* to keep this."

Chakotay shivered at the unexpected scalp massage. He gathered Tom's bare body closer to his own to keep his husband warm. "Well, I'll leave my hair longer while we're on vacation, but this fake moustache really itches so it's got to go." He offered with a laugh, "You can wear it next time if you want."

Tom snorted. "No thanks, I can grow my own. Besides, there's no way anybody would mistake me for a brunet." He continued to play with the heavy raven locks, tucking them behind Chakotay's ears to study the effect, then fluffing them out again. "Yes, this look will *definitely* work for the next scenario I have planned."

"And what exactly is that?" Chakotay asked warily, not trusting the sudden gleeful gleam in Tom's eyes.

"That, Senor husband, is for me to know and you to find out." Tom gave him a saucy wink. "Let's just say your role will appeal to your spiritual side."

"I'm not sure I want to know what that means, mi tesoro d'oro, my golden treasure," Chakotay teased as he caressed Tom's face.

"Oh, I bet you do, you handsome devil," Tom said with a smile as he slid his fingers down to start unbuttoning Chakotay's vest. "But for now how about we just indulge in another round of earthly delights."

And so they did.


	2. The Quick and the Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation to a gunfight brings together two very different men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that the Australian airing of the film "The Quick and the Dead" had a sex scene? Yep, between Russell Crowe and Sharon Stone. A description of the encounter inspired this Voyager version---with recasting, of course.

Lightning flashed as Angel stalked down Redemption's single dirt street. It illuminated the tall slim man, making the butternut yellow of his clothes gleam white-gold. His anger flared even brighter, helping him to ignore the rain pelting his hat and the wind whipping the folds of his long overcoat about his suede-clad legs.

As each angry booted step brought him closer to the town brothel, he contemplated the last few days. He couldn't believe that damn bunch of thugs hadn't learned their lesson yet. They were forcing him to rescue the preacher. Again.

The blond's eyes narrowed as he recalled the first time he'd acted to save the strange, compelling man known as Chak.

***************

Angel had ridden into Redemption on a mission to enter the quick-draw contest that drew gunslingers from across the territories and around the world. The lure was easy to discern: one million dollars in gold awaited the last man standing.

At least, that's why most of the outlaws and other toughs descended on the strip of clapboard buildings that made up the town. He himself had a different purpose, one that some would scorn and others would thank their lucky stars for.

Angel was here to kill the iron-fisted, self-appointed mayor of this broken-hearted outpost: the notorious murderer and marauder known as Herod.

The reason lay deep in a past that linked Herod, Angel, and the town. Angel knew that no one would recognize him as he entered the saloon and declared himself a candidate for the competition.

He refused to give his name, so he'd been entered on the lists as the Stranger. The sniggering cowpoke who suggested Blondie changed his mind pretty quickly after looking down the barrel of Angel's gun.

He'd been relaxing alone at his table, sipping his drink and wondering what the first bout would be like, when a commotion drew everyone's attention, even the hard-edged, middle-aged Herod's.

The swinging doors burst open before the man flying through them. A burly figure dressed in black landed in a roll, momentum carrying him across the floor until he was brought up short by the bar.

The clink of the chain linking the cuffs around the man's wrists accompanied his graceful effort to stand. The stiff white collar, black trousers, vest and frock coat clearly declared the newcomer's vocation as a man of the cloth. The manacles made an even stronger case for his current position as a prisoner.

Angel watched as broad but long-fingered hands reached up to smooth straight black hair. The dark locks were falling wildly around a face beautifully crafted of sharp angles and smooth planes. The man's aura of serenity was heightened by deep brown eyes, their calm belying the dire straits he found himself in. When Angel heard someone mutter, "This ain't no town for a preacher," he had to silently agree. Especially this one, whose fearless and compassionate gaze seemed to touch Angel to the soul.

The preacher's abductors strolled in and took up position on either side of their charge. One addressed Herod, whose cold gray eyes had fixed on the black-haired man the moment he appeared. "You sure this one used to ride with you, Mr. Herod? He weren't nothin'. We beat on him and he just stood there and took it."

The outlaw attempted to shove the bound man to demonstrate, but it was like trying to move a mountain. The kidnapper's hand rose, curled into a fist. Angel tensed, then relaxed back into his chair. After all, it was none of his business.

Herod's thick fingers flicked, stopping his minion's blow. He nodded slowly. "Oh yes, Ratsy. Chak here was the hardest-riding, fastest-shooting outlaw there ever was." His expression hardened. "Until he grew a peace-loving yellow streak and decided to spend his life giving instead of taking."

He picked up his glass of water and took a sip. "I remember you so well, Chak. All those days and nights you were at my side. We were very close, once upon a time." His eyes assessed, caressed his prisoner. "You used to be as fast as a pouncing cat. Are you still fast?"

Silence reigned. Angel felt his own hackles rise as the preacher simply stared Herod down, refusing to answer.

Herod didn't take disobedience well. "I said, are you still fast?" the older man repeated, voice rising. When no response was forthcoming, he threw his still-full glass at his prisoner and yelled, "Answer me!"

Everyone in the room gasped as Chak's bound hands reached up with unbelievable speed and plucked the glass from the air. He thirstily drank down the contents. Angel's own throat dried at the sight of the Adam's apple moving underneath dusty bronze skin.

The preacher finished and lowered the glass, again meeting Herod's eyes. "Faster than you," was all he said.

Herod looked for a moment like he would explode, then gave a sinister chuckle. "Well that's exactly what I've brought you here to find out, Chak." He shouted to the barkeep, "Add Chak's name to the contest!"

"No," Chak protested. Though quiet, the word stilled the room as folks turned to see their despot's reaction to defiance.

It wasn't good. "No?" Herod asked silkily.

"No," Chak confirmed. "I won't fight, so you might as well send me back."

"I have a better idea, Chak: If you won't fight for me, you'll at least entertain me by dancing from the gibbet." He looked to the henchmen he had scattered about the room. "Bring me a rope!" he ordered. He jerked his chin at the two still guarding the preacher. "Move a chair under the ceiling beam. Then escort my old colleague to it."

Angel watched in horror as moments later Chak was balancing on the balls of his feet on the chair, a hangman's noose around his neck and Herod's gun sighting along his bound frame.

"So you won't fight?" Herod asked, his brows rising.

"No," Chak confirmed.

Herod shot out the rungs holding the chair legs together, one by one. After each bullet had done its work he asked his question and Chak reaffirmed his refusal.

Angel made his move just as Herod fired to shatter the last support. He leapt to his feet, drawing his gun, aiming and shooting the rope in one smooth motion. The preacher dropped to the floor, the noose flopping along his back.

Herod turned, shocked at a second act of rebellion.

Angel coolly holstered his gun and sat back down with a shrug. "Put a gun in a man's hand and another at his head and he'll fight soon enough. I want to see just how fast he really is."

After a long moment of Angel's life flashing before his eyes, Herod had laughed and thrown up his hands. "It looks like Chak's got a guardian angel. I'd like to test our new friend's theory---put Chak in the contest!"

***************

That had been the first time. In the last few days, Angel had continued to cross paths with the preacher, often keeping the manacled man from being hassled by the assorted outlaws or Herod's men. It was almost impossible to avoid Chak, since Herod kept the preacher chained to the town's fountain all night and to the railings of various buildings during the day.

Herod's obsession with his reformed colleague grated on Angel's nerves. His own mysterious origins and murky agenda apparently didn't interest Herod at all. Every time Angel managed to start a conversation with Redemption's corrupt head honcho, all Herod did was stare out the window toward his prisoner and mutter imprecations. Even the fast-draw contest that had claimed so many lives seemed inconsequential in comparison.

Still, Angel couldn't deny the preacher was a man to hold the eye. Over the last few days in Herod's care, Chak had lost his coat, vest, and collar. Now the sunlight shining through a simple white cotton shirt hinted at the impressive muscles adorning his torso, and the missing top button offered just a glimpse of smooth tawny skin.

It seemed Herod was angling to get Chak in his bed as well as back into his outlaw band. If that was the ultimate goal, Angel could understand why the man was so focused on making Chak revert to a ruthless killer.

Still, tonight was the last straw. They had run out of time. Only four participants were left in Herod's gunfest: Chak, Angel, a young man named Kid, and Herod himself. Chak and Angel were scheduled to fight each other tomorrow.

Angel had ridden out to the town cemetery to commune with the ghosts of the past. On his return he learned that Herod's ruffians had slipped their leashes and decided to remind the preacher of the pleasures of the flesh. They'd dragged him to the brothel for a "night to remember".

Angel decided enough was enough. It was time to show this town that he wasn't protecting Chak out of the goodness of his heart. Oh no, he was expecting an earthly recompense for all of his efforts. And tonight he was going to claim his reward---and heaven help anyone stupid enough to stand in his way.

***************

The brothel was filled with its usual mix of cowpokes, townsfolk, and working girls. Adding to the crowd were some of the spectators who had traveled to see Herod's annual winnowing of fast guns. This year's contest was expected to end as all the others: with Herod triumphant, all who could oppose him lying in their early graves.

There was a dispirited air to the gathering that matched the faded gentility of the surroundings. Most people were uncomfortable with what they knew was happening in a second-floor room. They'd seen Chak being pulled through the doors and up the stairs, fighting and protesting all the way. It had taken six of Herod's goons to get the chained ex-gunfighter inside.

The ladies of the evening sighed among themselves, wondering if the men were going to hire some of them to remind the preacher of the lovely, lively sin of fornication. They were torn: Chak's hard body and soft mouth promised a plenitude of sensual delights, but his continued refusal to sink to Herod's level had rekindled the gals' own self-respect.

Their speculations ended as the front door slammed open, hitting the wall beside it with a thud. Everyone froze as the enigmatic gunslinger Herod called Angel stalked into the room. The man's chill blue eyes promised death. They'd seen his slender hands and gleaming six-guns deal it often enough in the quick-draw rounds to know it wasn't a bluff.

A harsh voice grated into the stunned silence. "Where is he?"

The tension held another beat, then the brothel madam pointed upstairs. "First door on your right," was all she said.

Angel nodded and took off like a whirlwind, knocking people left and right until they crowded the railing to get out of his way.

The gunman stopped before the closed portal, drew his guns and took a deep breath. Then he kicked the door in.

***************

Chak was ducking yet another henchman's attempt to teach him some manners when his guardian angel arrived with a crash of thunder and the bang of the opening door.

He was profoundly relieved to see the slim stranger who'd been saving his hide since he'd arrived in Redemption. Their conversations had revealed only a little of the gunman's hazy past, but the good heart under the tough exterior was clear enough. And the stranger's handsomeness was easy to see.

Angel had the classic features of a fairy-tale prince, complete with wavy gold hair and bright blue eyes. His pale skin had acquired a hint of darker color from the sun, and the faint tan made him a part of the landscape. His body was wiry but tough, lean and strong like the predators that roamed the West.

At the moment Angel looked ready to strike, without a second thought and with deadly accuracy. Chak relaxed a little as the six men around him also heeded the warning in the steely gaze and glinting guns, raising their hands in surrender.

"Against the wall---Now!" Angel barked, gesturing with one weapon. Herod's henchmen obeyed without hesitation or question, pressing their palms to the faded wallpaper. Angel walked down the row, casually knocking each one out with a single blow to the back of the head. When he was done, he turned to the preacher.

The blue gaze raking over Chak made him shiver as a thrill of awareness ran down his spine. He watched as one gun was holstered, and responded to a beckoning gesture of Angel's free hand.

Chak was shocked as that hand grabbed the chain between his wrists and jerked him bodily into the hallway. He waited as Angel pulled the door shut and locked the outlaws in. Then before he could ask what was going on his chain was pulled again.

He stumbled behind Angel as the taller man dragged him down the corridor. Then a second door was kicked open and Chak found himself being tossed into another bedroom. He landed on a mattress, bouncing a little. He immediately leapt to his feet and moved away from the wrought-iron bed.

Angel locked the door and holstered his other gun. Chak could *feel* the stare that slid over him once, then returned to linger and caress. Chak's eyes widened at the aura of menace---no, intent---that shimmered in the air around the gunman.

Chak's breath caught as he suddenly realized just why Angel had brought him in here.

***************

Angel had to grin as he watched the preacher mentally connect the dots. The man looked adorably confused, then stunned as he started babbling and backing away.

"I didn't want to be here, you know. They---they somehow got the key to the padlock and unhooked me from the fountain. I---I tried to get away but there were too many and---and they said I'd survived so many rounds in the contest I deserved a reward and---and they were going to give me one. They---they were trying to get me to tell them which girl I wanted when---when you stopped them. And I'm very grateful---really I am, I tried to tell them I didn't want any of the girls but they wouldn't listen, but---but don't you think we should try to escape?" Chak ran out of breath as he ran out of room. His back hit the wall. He tensed as Angel approached, one sauntering step at a time.

Angel was in no hurry as stalked his prey. The view was exquisite and he wanted to enjoy it. He took off his hat and tossed it onto a chair, then followed with his coat and gunbelt. His eyes continued their bold assessment of the man pressed against the faded red wallpaper.

Chak had obviously been out in the rain for quite some time before he ended up in the brothel. His shirt was so wet it was almost transparent, clinging to curving muscles, twin dusky peaks clearly showing through the cloth. His pants were molded to his legs, and his bare toes were clenched against the red carpet.

Angel wondered a moment where the preacher's boots had gotten to but didn't really care. He moved in close to Chak, breathing his air, feeling the brush of their chests with each inhalation. He sensed Chak's chain press against his own belly as the bound man tried to raise his hands. Angel's grin widened as he ground against his captive's body, trapping the chain and therefore Chak's wrists. He raised his hands and placed them on either side of Chak's head, his gaze probing the wide brown eyes.

They stared at each other.

Chak's heart was still beating fast, but now with an unfamiliar excitement. Despite all of Herod's efforts throughout their association, Chak had never shared the outlaw's bed. Or in fact, any man's. It wasn't safe to do so when your reputation for ruthlessness was all that kept you alive.

He'd never really understood the appeal before. Women were soft, easy, willing. There was no reason to seek out men for sex; companionship was all he needed from them.

But now *he* was the one being sought. Captured. Claimed. Chak recognized all those thoughts swirling in the dilated blue eyes before him. The knowledge sparked a desire he never expected. True, he'd learned to respect Angel's abilities even as he'd tried to persuade the fair-haired man to leave Redemption. He'd also acknowledged Angel's beauty, completely male and confusingly alluring.

Now Chak recognized a few other truths. They were both trapped in Redemption; Herod had seen to that. And there was also no denying or escaping the passion rising between them. He stared back at Angel, wanting to touch him, to map the contours of his face and learn the texture of his hair. He wanted to understand what form passion took between men.

Chak did the only thing he could: he surrendered.

Angel watched the emotions ghost across the face so close to his. He saw the umber eyes darken to black, the full lips part on a whispered "Please," and suddenly Chak was kissing him.

Angel immediately pushed his tongue into the offered sweetness, exploring the sharp edges of teeth and the soft moist haven of the inner walls. He tasted Chak thoroughly, his hands shifting to tilt the wet dark head for greater access. His hips began to pulse forward of their own volition as he gloried in the moans rising from the bronze throat.

Suddenly Chak's body shook with a chill. Angel immediately pulled back, looking at his companion with concern. "You're soaked," he murmured, his tone a mix of scolding and caring.

"That happens when you're left out in the rain," Chak retorted, trying to bring his body back under control.

Angel's expression turned wicked. "Then let me get you out of these wet things." He backed up a step, his hands moving to the fastening of the black trousers. He paused a moment, his raised brows asking a question. He was relieved at the fleeting nod and smile he received.

He quickly peeled off Chak's pants and underwear, but was stymied by the shirt. He couldn't remove it because of the manacles. The drier bottom edges now hung to mid-thigh, hiding too much skin. With a snarl of frustration he looked around the room for inspiration.

Besides the turned-down bed and the chair Angel had flung his things on, there was only a dresser, another chair, two nightstands and a pot-bellied stove. Gas lamps on the walls gave the room a golden glow, hiding the frayed edges and nicked surfaces of its appointments. His eyes alit on a large china pitcher resting on the top of the stove.

He moved over to investigate and found it full of steaming water. A quick check of the bureau revealed a matching bowl and a selection of bath oils and other items on a tray, along with a pile of clean white towels.

Angel moved the tray to the nightstand, then transferred the pitcher and grabbed a towel. He turned to his companion, who'd been watching in quiet curiosity.

"Come here," Angel said softly, and held open the towel. When Chak reached him he tossed the towel over the other man's head, rubbing his hair dry. He lowered the cloth and spent a moment finger-combing the dark locks into some semblance of order.

Then he wrapped the towel around the wet shirt, trying to absorb some of its moisture. When he was finished he tossed the towel away and contemplated the damp garment a long moment. Suddenly he reached forward and ripped it open, buttons flying.

He silenced Chak's startled protest with another kiss, this one searingly possessive. He pressed himself against the revealed golden-brown flesh, pushing his suede-clad erection into a dusky naked one.

Chak's head was spinning. The breath was being sucked out of his lungs by a voracious mouth, his nerves were tingling as rough cloth and cold chain rubbed against his skin. Then his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, and Angel's lips and teeth were on his neck. He groaned as kisses and bites traveled a random pattern along his throat. Hands explored his back, sliding under the shirt to trail from his shoulder blades to his thighs. He moaned again at the unfamiliar touch of fingers on his buttocks, and between them.

He wasn't ready for the change of venue when Angel suddenly grabbed his hips and swung him onto the mattress. Before he knew it he was flat on his back with his arms stretched above his head. The chain had been expertly tangled in the whorls of the leaf-patterned wrought-iron headboard. He tugged experimentally; he definitely wasn't going anywhere. His eyes sought his captor. The younger man had risen from the bed and was swiftly stripping, revealing a lightly furred chest and belly, the muscles of arms and thighs. The lamplight gilded his skin and seemed to caress the length of a long, full cock jutting proudly from a nest of dark gold curls.

Chak ran his eyes along the lean body, confirming his first impression of a hungry predator. He swallowed and wondered what would happen next.

***************

Angel looked at the bronze form sprawled against white sheets. Honey-colored skin gleamed, the contours of the heavy muscles beneath highlighted by shadows. The smoothness of the legs and torso excited him; he wanted to rub his own hair-roughened skin against the silky expanse. He also had the urgent need to run his tongue over every inch. The stiff column of Chak's cock seemed to beckon him, swaying slightly with the other man's small movements as he tried to free himself. Angel watched powerful biceps strain against the shirtsleeves and considered tearing the garment off completely.

Instead, he spread Chak's thighs and settled himself between them. Angel glided his body along his captive's as he reached over for the pitcher. He poured a generous amount of water into the bowl and plopped in a large sponge. Then he squeezed it out and began washing Chak. He varied the pressure as he roamed the tawny throat and sides, chest and belly and legs. He constantly re-soaked and squeezed out the sponge, making sure it stayed warm and not too wet.

Soon he gave in to temptation and let his mouth lick up the scattered droplets left behind. He teased the erect nipples, sucking and biting, then let his teeth graze over the glistening pectorals and midriff. Ribs and belly were also laved and tasted.

The chain stretched taut as Chak moaned and pulled, trying to bring his hands down to touch his sweet torturer. His body seemed to lift and twist of its own accord, responding to the rough stroke of sponge and tongue, the sting of teeth.

He brought his knees together, feeling the tiny hairs on Angel's legs prickle against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He bucked his hips, trying to find friction for his painfully erect cock.

At the movement Angel caught the flash of shadow along the seam between Chak's buttocks. He paused, a sudden idea hardening his own cock further. He quickly abandoned the large sponge, looking at his other choices.

There it was: a smaller sponge, this one more cylindrical in shape. He snatched it up and settled back into his kneeling position.

He slipped his left arm under both of Chak's knees, and in a sudden move folded and shoved the bronze legs into Chak's chest, holding them up with a forearm against the backs of the solid thighs. He gave a wolf's smile as he spied his target: the tiny orifice that was his ultimate destination. Pinching the tip of the sponge to compress it, he delicately probed Chak's opening.

Chak held his breath, not knowing what to expect. He could sense Angel's gaze on his exposed body. He gasped as he was breached. The sponge was pressed inward, inexorable, its rough internal caress like nothing he'd ever imagined. He groaned and shifted, uncertain whether to pull away or push forward for more. He could do neither, completely at the blond's mercy.

Angel manipulated the sponge, avidly watching Chak's tight opening stretch around it. He pushed in another inch and heard Chak's breath hitch, then deepen as the sponge brushed against the pleasure point. He shifted forward and eased the pressure on Chak's legs.

His gaze was filled with a glorious sight: Chak's head was flung back, his throat arching, his lips open in deep moans. His hands were gripping the chain, knuckles showing white. Chak's powerful chest and abdomen lay bare and glistening, his cock slicked with the precum dripping from its flared head. His balls were tight and full beneath it. Ripe and ready.

Angel couldn't resist the lure any longer. He leaned down and simultaneously thrust with the sponge and swallowed Chak's cock.

A shout pushed its way out of Chak's throat as he was filled and sucked. The intensity of the sensations arched his back, his seed jetting down Angel's throat. He writhed, unable to stretch or buck or do anything except ride out the wave of pleasure. Eventually he came back to himself, his body sinking into the mattress with a sigh.

***************

Angel scrambled up the quiescent form, spreading his legs to encompass Chak's wide chest. The few remaining shirt buttons were sharp against his shin. He ran gentle fingers down one high-boned cheek, startling open sated brown eyes.

His voice was a soft command. "Taste me."

Full lips opened and Angel again found himself fascinated by the view as Chak's tongue darted out for a tentative lick. He moaned.

Chak tasted salt and musk. He raised his head and surrounded the purple crest with his mouth, drawing it in slowly. Angel's pulse beat against his lips and tongue. His mouth watered as he took more and more of the straining length.

Angel's eyes had closed in pleasure, his head tilted toward the ceiling as he groaned his delight. It was too much; he wanted to thrust, to feel Chak suck him into oblivion. Instead he opened his eyes and slowly pulled himself out, absurdly pleased when a tiny moue of disappointment formed on the carved lips. "Thanks," he said with a smile, then slid back to his original place in the vee of Chak's body.

As he lifted the bronze hips, another thought struck him. His eyes glittered as raised Chak's pelvis higher, to the level of his mouth. With a gleefully evil chuckle, he pulled out the sponge and began to work.

Chak gave a grunt of surprise as Angel's tongue began to lap a trail from his balls to his asshole. Then the agile invader slipped into the loosened portal, stroking him internally. He whimpered and felt his cock twitch with renewed life.

Angel grinned at the sound. He tightened his grip on the sleek body, holding Chak in place as his captive groaned and shifted. With a final lick he lowered Chak and coated his own aching cock with bath oil. With a deep breath, Angel slid into the readied channel, not stopping until his balls were pressed tight against a satiny bronze ass. He began a leisurely stroke in and out.

This was bliss: hot, tight, the body beneath him welcoming and completely under his control. Angel unconsciously dug his fingers into Chak's hips as he pistoned deeper and harder, seeking to bury himself completely, to possess every inch of his captive. To stake his claim, to brand Chak body and soul so he would know, would remember no other touch.

Chak could feel the heat building again in his core. He wanted to meet each stroke, to match passion for passion. He arched his back and answered every hard thrust, bringing Angel deeper into him, trying to merge into one flesh. He began to tug at the chains once more, his head tossing from side to side, muttering incoherently.

Angel raked his nails along the delicate crease between hip and leg, feeling Chak jump at the tiny pain. He teased the tight balls, one knuckle burrowing underneath to press hard at the sweet spot. His hand shifted upward to grip and stroke Chak's turgid sex. Suddenly his palm was slick with semen and his cock in the vise-like grip of Chak's ass. He slammed himself forward again and again, releasing his seed with a growl of exultation.

Chak felt the lightning race along his nerves, pulling him taut in an arc of pleasure. He called out his ecstasy.

***************

Tom settled his face into the crook of his husband's neck, languidly licking at the droplets of sweat gathered there. "You need a bath," he mumbled against the tasty flesh.

"I just had one," Chakotay replied idly, still floating. He languidly rubbed his cheek against soft blond hair. "Cut me loose, would you?"

Tom lifted his head, examining the tangled chain. "Computer, delete manacles," he ordered. He sat up as his husband's arms flopped onto the pillows and helped Chakotay remove the shirt. Afterward he lifted one bronze wrist, examining its circlet of purple bruises. His brows furrowed. "These are just for show, right?"

Chakotay ran his free hand up and down his husband's lean flank, enjoying the contact. His eyes followed Tom's. "They *were* for show. There might be one or two real ones now." He offered a lazy grin. "Take it as a compliment."

Tom wrinkled his nose but smiled back. He began to soothe the chafed skin with his lips and tongue. In between licks he said, "I'll make sure to regenerate them before we leave."

"You do that," Chakotay agreed. "I don't want to have to explain to the Doc the difference between 'well-used' and 'abused'." He settled more comfortably on the bed, his eyes drifting closed. "This was definitely the former."

"Glad to hear it," Tom said and exchanged one wrist for the other. "I wasn't sure how you'd take my impromptu sponge bath."

Chakotay chuckled. "Let's just say if you were my nurse, I'd be a very cooperative patient. And I'd want you to be absolutely obsessed with cleanliness." 

He opened his eyes again as something occurred to him. "Hey Tom, speaking of obsessed, what's the deal with Herod? He seems to think he and I had some kind of history together." He shuddered. "He's creepy. I kept wanting to tell him I'm married so he'd leave me alone."

"I was wondering that myself. I didn't think I'd programmed him to be so hot for your delectable bod." Tom frowned. "And I know I didn't input the way he kept trying to rub up against you. I nearly spit a brick when he tore your clerical collar off." 

He shrugged. "We'll get him tomorrow, though."

"So what's the plan?" Chakotay asked, curious to know the scenario. He tugged his husband back down to lie on his chest as they talked.

Tom snuggled into the warm embrace, the one spot in the universe he felt most at home. "Well, we're supposed to fake my death and Herod kills Kid. I set off dynamite under every building in town, and sweep in for a final challenge. You kill all the henchmen, I shoot Herod through the heart. Then I ride off into the sunset and leave you as the new marshal of Redemption."

One sable brow rose. "Marshal of a town with no buildings? Thanks a bunch."

Tom grinned sheepishly, then leaned up to touch noses with his mate. "You got a better idea?"

Chakotay caught the twinkle in the blue eyes. "Sure, we stay here in bed and tell the computer to give Herod a heart attack. He can die in his sleep. Oh, and let the cavalry ride in to deal with the riff-raff." He smiled and winked. "But of course they leave us all the gold."

Tom touched a fingertip to each of those killer dimples. "So you'd rather stay on this nice soft bed and fuck than finish the holonovel?"

Broad shoulders shrugged. "Well Tom, I'm just playing my character. The preacher's reformed; he's a lover not a fighter. And *I've* been sleeping outside in the town square, so being in this bedroom is like lying the lap of luxury."

"Oh, I can assure you, Chak, that *I'm* lying there." Tom said with a provocative shimmy, then sobered. "You were really OK with everything? I didn't actually come right out and ask."

"I loved every minute, Tom." Chakotay lifted a hand to stroke Tom's cheek. "I love you."

Tom smiled. "Then one heart attack and clueless cavalry coming up." Tom gave the commands, then kissed his beloved mate, their mouths communicating emotions without words.

When they broke for air, Chakotay said, "By the way, I'm going to pick the program for our next playtime. I'm a little tired of the Old West."

Curiosity pricked Tom's ears. "Oh, what do you have in mind?"

"A setting you can immerse yourself in," Chakotay said mysteriously. Then he grinned and bucked his groin into Tom's. "But until then, ride 'em cowboy."

Tom clutched his lover and prepared to saddle up once more. "You got it, pardner."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed with great joy and constructive criticism is treasured as a rare gift.


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